


Taking the Blame

by artfulinanities



Series: Just Some Tumblr Things... [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Sherlock, Caretaker John, Character Death, Developing Relationship, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, First Time, Fix-It, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Hand Jobs, Hurt Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, Intercrural Sex, Johnlock Roulette, Lots of Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mary is a villain in this one, Nightmares, Not Season/Series 03 Compliant, Oral Sex, PTSD Sherlock, Post-Reichenbach, Sensitive Sherlock, Sherlock's scars, The baby is a lie, Top John, Torture, consulting husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-02
Updated: 2016-05-05
Packaged: 2018-06-05 22:56:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6726724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artfulinanities/pseuds/artfulinanities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The detective’s head snaps up, his pupils wide and dark. “It was to protect you,” he hisses, face contorting into something ugly and foreign. “Everything I’ve done was to protect you! Leaving you behind, taking down Moriarty’s network, watching you choose her -” he cuts himself off, running a shaking hand through his curls. “I didn’t know she would try to finish the job, John. I honestly didn’t know how far she was willing to go.”</p>
<p>“Then why? Why did you…”</p>
<p>Sherlock laughs, high and hollow, staring at the skull over the mantle. “I thought it would keep you safe. God, sentiment can be so blinding!”</p>
<p>John inhales sharply, reaching back to steady himself against the desk, the wood digging into his palm. “Sentiment?”</p>
<p>"Honestly, John,” Sherlock whispers, leaning back against the wall with a wince. “You see, but you don’t observe.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

> Another product of a sleepless night...
> 
>  

John is absolutely _furious_. He storms up the 17 steps with Sherlock on his heels - following, not leading, for once - his curly head hanging, whether in pain or from guilt, John can’t be arsed to care. He throws open the door to the flat and stomps inside, wheeling on his former flatmate and still best friend (despite his being a complete bastard), all of the words he wants to say bubbling up in his stomach, hot and acrid. There are so many questions, so many things that don’t make sense and he wants to scream, but when he opens his mouth, the only thing that come out is: “Why?”

Sherlock looks at him, eyes flat and pale like the sky just before the dawn. There are bruises under his eyes and his cheeks look sunken, but he’s alive. Thank God, he’s _alive_.

“You…she had a mission. I didn’t know. I thought you would be safe, but -”

“You were wrong,” John snarls, cutting him off. “It was never about me. It’s always about you!”

“John, I never meant -”

“No. No, Sherlock. No more excuses, no more lies, no more leaving me out so that you can be _clever!”_ John slams his fist down on the desk, sending a stack of papers cascading to the floor like autumn leaves. Sherlock watches them fall, his mouth open in a small ‘o’, his gaze glassy.

“It wasn’t to be clever,” he whispers, wrapping his arms around himself. “I just…”

“Just what? Wanted to finish the job? Take away everything, because jumping from a bloody building and faking your own death wasn’t enough?” John is livid, every hurt, every accusation tumbling from his lips laced with two years worth of venom. Sherlock flinches, turning so that his back is to the wall, protected. John pulls up, his army instincts kicking in, taking in Sherlock’s defensive posture and darting gaze. Something isn’t right.

“Sherlock?”

The detective’s head snaps up, his pupils wide and dark. “It was to protect you,” he hisses, face contorting into something ugly and foreign. “Everything I’ve done was to protect you! Leaving you behind, taking down Moriarty’s network, watching you choose her -” he cuts himself off, running a shaking hand through his curls. “I didn’t know she would try to finish the job, John. I honestly didn’t know how far she was willing to go.”

“Then why? Why did you…”

Sherlock laughs, high and hollow, staring at the skull over the mantle. “I thought it would keep you safe. God, sentiment can be so blinding!”

John inhales sharply, reaching back to steady himself against the desk, the wood digging into his palm. “Sentiment?”

"Honestly, John,” Sherlock whispers, leaning back against the wall with a wince. “You see, but you don’t _observe_.”

John frowns, head pounding from all the revelations in the past few weeks and he can’t handle any more games.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, sniffing sharply. “Right. Okay. I’m going to think on that when it doesn’t feel like my brain is about to explode.” John shucks his jacket, putting aside his personal crises to check on his patient. Because that’s what he is right now. His wife has become their client and Sherlock has become his patient. The army taught him how to compartmentalise and it’s the only thing that will keep him sane.

Sherlock looks a bit ashen, his brow glistening with a fine sheen of sweat. His doctors at the hospital had warned him not to engage in anything too strenuous and here he is, climbing stairs and yelling at John like old times. Not good.

“Let’s get you settled, yeah? You shouldn’t be up and about. Not when you’ve got a hole in your chest.” John crosses the room and helps Sherlock from his coat, heart giving a lurch at every whimper Sherlock makes during the process. He’s not supposed to sound like that; Sherlock is above the pains and aches of his transport, superhuman in his ability to push beyond it all.

‘No,’ John thinks, bracing his friend as his legs wobble and his face goes pale. ‘Sherlock is very human.’

They make their way to Sherlock’s room slowly, the detective waning a little more with every step. John murmurs to him, keeping him conscious until he can get him propped up and medicated. Sherlock pauses on the threshold of his room, breathing heavily and eying the bed with naked longing. John helps him to the chair near the door for a break while he turns down the sheets. Pillows arranged in a satisfactory manner, John turns back to Sherlock, the last of his anger dissipating at the sight of his friend. He looks utterly miserable, hunched in the chair with his curls damp from sweat and his face contorted in pain. Whatever differences they might have, this is John’s fault. He married the assassin that shot Sherlock in the chest; his suffering is John’s fault.

“Hey,” John calls, kneeling at Sherlock’s feet. “Just a little more, then you can sleep.” Sherlock nods weakly, letting John remove his shoes and socks, setting them aside before hauling the lanky man to his feet. The suit jacket is next, followed by the shirt, Sherlock’s hands stopping him halfway.

"I…there were injuries,” he breathes, barely conscious enough to speak properly, swaying where he stands. “While I was…don’t be mad. Please?” John is floored, staring up at Sherlock in fear. Injuries? The detective looks away, eyes falling shut, the fan of his lashes casting dark shadows against the slopes of his cheekbones, and John finishes unbuttoning the shirt. He can feel them as he pushes the fabric from Sherlock’s shoulders, ropey scars and puckered skin that make bile rise in his throat.

'Later,’ he tells himself, finishing undressing his flatmate until he’s standing in naught but his pants, shivering from the effort of remaining upright, skin as pale as the dressing on his chest. John helps him to sit on the mattress, fetching his pyjama trousers and ratty grey shirt and helping him dress.

Sherlock lies down willingly, eyes falling shut as soon as his head hits the pillows. He appears to wilt, all of the strength leaving his body in a great exhale that echoes through the room. John fetches his medication, dolling out the tablets and helping him drink from a glass of water. It’s a slow process, helping him settle, shifting and lifting and fluffing pillows until Sherlock can recline without looking as though he’s about to vomit.

“Get some sleep. We’ll talk in the morning,” John orders, making to leave, but a hand on his wrist stops him.

"It was all for you,” Sherlock rasps, eyes vacant as the drugs start to work through his system. “And I would do it again. Keep you safe.”

“I know,” John replies, loosening Sherlock’s grip. “I know.” Sherlock’s hand falls back on the blankets and he stares at it for a while, his mouth twisting at the corners as though he might cry, but his eyes flutter shut and his breathing deepens, the small pinch staying between his brows.

John stares at Sherlock, his heart doing something complicated, reminding him of those forbidden feelings from before the fall. He leaves, closing the door behind him and slumping to the floor. His wedding ring feels heavy on his left hand.

It’s all his fault.


	2. No Rest For the Wicked

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A blood-curdling scream shatters his waking nightmares, sending John hurtling to his feet and through the door, eyes scanning the room for any signs of intruders. The curtains are still drawn, the windows closed, no signs of anyone else in the room. John casts his glance towards the bed, taking in Sherlock’s writhing form. Sherlock is tossing and turning, hands hovering in front of his face as though shielding himself from an assailant.
> 
> “Sherlock! Sherlock!” John stands back from the bed, knowing full well how violent nightmares can get. Sherlock lets out a whine, illuminated by the light streaming in from the hall, a dark patch appearing on his abdomen. Shit. His stitches. “Sherlock wake up!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for nightmares, here. Slow start, but we'll get to the good stuff, I promise.

John spends the next few hours propped up just outside Sherlock’s door, leaving only to make a fresh cup of tea when his first one goes cold, sitting untouched next to his knee. The rumble of the kettle sounds too loud in the loaded silence of the flat and John keeps shooting glances at the closed door of Sherlock’s room. It remains shut, no noise seeping out through the small gap between the bottom of the door and the floorboards, the wood polished by thousands of footsteps over time. Sighing, John settles back into his spot, joints protesting the position. It’s uncomfortable, the floor cold, the wallpaper rough against his cheek. His eyes burn with the need for sleep, but every time he closes his eyes, he’s staring down his wife, the barrel of the gun held tightly in her hand a gaping black maw prepared to swallow him whole. God, how had this become his life?

A blood-curdling scream shatters his waking nightmares, sending John hurtling to his feet and through the door, eyes scanning the room for any signs of intruders. The curtains are still drawn, the windows closed, no signs of anyone else in the room. John casts his glance towards the bed, taking in Sherlock’s writhing form. Sherlock is tossing and turning, hands hovering in front of his face as though shielding himself from an assailant.

“Sherlock! Sherlock!” John stands back from the bed, knowing full well how violent nightmares can get. Sherlock lets out a whine, illuminated by the light streaming in from the hall, a dark patch appearing on his abdomen. Shit. His stitches. “Sherlock wake up!”

John straddles his friend, pinning his hands and hips to the mattress, ignoring the frightened noises Sherlock is making beneath him.

“No! No! John! Please!”

John’s stomach drops, heart giving a violent lurch. “I’m here, Sherlock. I’m here. Wake up. Come back to me.” Sherlock stills, lashes fluttering and damp with tears. “That’s right. Come back to me.”

“John?” Sherlock blinks up at him, pupils blown wide, chest heaving.

“Hey. Welcome back.”

“I…” Sherlock gasps, face going ashen, body moving to curl in on itself. He gives a cry of pain, head falling back against the pillows.

“Shhhit. Okay, it’s okay. Hold still. Let me see.” Sherlock shakes his head, biting his lip. “No, I know it hurts, but you’re bleeding. I need to fix it.” John’s voice breaks on the last word, cracking desperately as he releases Sherlock’s wrists. There are bruises blooming on the pale skin, the area angry and red from his thrashing. John swallows audibly, guilt welling in his chest, seeping into his lungs and making it hard to breathe.

Satisfied that Sherlock is unlikely to bolt, John swings his leg back over Sherlock’s hips, leaving him just long enough to grab his kit from the loo, talking softly to Sherlock as he moves about the room to keep him firmly grounded in the present. “Alright, then. Shirt up,” John mutters, sliding the stained fabric up to reveal the heavily soaked bandage. Sherlock hisses as he peels the bandage back, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. John inhales sharply, swapping the area clean and inspecting the damage. Sherlock has managed to split the edges of the wound with his thrashing, tearing the stitches from the second surgery and – thankfully – doing no damage to the cauterized areas of the main wound. John bandages him up, hands smoothing over the skin of his abdomen in comforting circles. Sherlock looks at him from under his lashes, eyes still hazy from the medication, but the emotions there clear as day. He watches John as though he’ll disappear, as if John were made of smoke and the lightest breath would blow his specter away into the shadows.

“I’m not going anywhere,” John whispers, sweeping Sherlock’s dampened fringe back from his forehead, stomach twisting when Sherlock leans into the contact with a tiny sound akin to a sob. “I promise. I’m here.”

“Will you,” Sherlock rasps, turning to face John, eyes imploring, but his face tight as though prepared for rejection. “Will you stay here?”

In his condition, sharing a bed is absolutely detrimental to his recovery. The nightmares pose enough of a problem on their own, making John nervous enough to contemplate camping out on the floor anyway. Squaring his shoulders, he nods, turning to go. Behind him, Sherlock lets out a small grunt, sheets rustling around his legs. “Don’t worry,” John calls over his shoulder, pausing on the threshold to give Sherlock a tight smile. “I’ll be right back.” Sherlock nods, settling against the pillows, eyes falling shut.

John takes the stairs two at a time, shedding his jumper and trading his street clothes for cotton sleep trousers and a vest. He gathers the spare blankets from the closet of his old room, minding the steps on his way back down. The Union Jack pillow is plucked from his newly returned chair and tossed atop the pile, faded colours bright against the muted beige linens. Sherlock lets out a sigh when John deposits the load on the floor of his bedroom, pale eyes tracking John’s every move as he constructs a makeshift bed just beside Sherlock’s footboard, parallel to the door of the loo and his head closer to the hallway so that he can keep an eye on Sherlock from his little nest of blankets.

“Alright?”

“Yes. Thank you, John.” Sherlock’s voice is quiet, subdued, his lids looking heavy as he struggles to stay awake.

“Need anything else? Some water, more pain medication?” Sherlock shakes his head, wincing at the motion, eyes still fixed on John.

 

_‘Keep your eyes fixed on me.’_

John blinks away the memory, settling into his bed, knees popping. He’ll regret it in the morning, but it’s easier this way. For now, it will do. It reminds him a bit of roughing it while on tour, but there’s no heat, no open desert skies, no howling wind to take him back to Afghanistan. It’s just Sherlock and John and Baker Street.

“John?” Sherlock’s inquiry is soft, sleepy.

“Yeah?’

“Oh. Nothing…I just…needed to make sure you were still here.”

John covers his mouth with one fist, breathing through his nose and blinking quickly, his eyes stinging. “Yeah,” he replies, his voice gruff. “I’m still here.”

“Alright. Goodnight, John.”

“G’night, Sherlock.”

It’s quiet, the uneven cadence of Sherlock’s breathing filling the space. John can hear the pain on every inhale, the tiny hitch on the exhale, and he feels sick.

‘Your fault,’ his brain whispers. ‘It’s all your fault.’

Eventually, Sherlock’s breathing evens out, signaling a deep, if troubled, sleep. John lets out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, slowly uncurling his fist. His palm stings, four perfect crescents carved into the thick skin, white against the tan, tingling as blood rushes back into his fingers. Sherlock stirs and John freezes, ears straining for the hints of another nightmare, but everything stay quiet, still.

He doesn’t know how long he lies there, staring at the black shape where Sherlock is, heart beating painfully in his chest. He does know that when sleep claims him, it's less of a voluntary transition and more of a surrender to the inevitable. Darkness claims him, his mind still churning over Sherlock and his nightmares.

It's going to be a long road ahead of them.


	3. Not Yet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He leans his head against the cabinets, watching the water spiral down the drain, the dull roar of the stream against the metal basin of the sink echoing in his ears. Sighing, he wets one hands and rubs it over his face, scrunching his nose at the drag of stubble against skin. God, he’s so angry. No, not just angry. He’s hurt, and he wants Sherlock to hurt, too.
> 
> ‘He’s hurting enough,’ John’s brain reminds him. ‘Your wife saw to that.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little TW for vomit in this one.

Sherlock sleeps through the night, John waking him once to give him more pills, but remaining nightmare-free until he wakes around 5 am. John is there, having set an alarm for every half-hour to check on his charge, glass of water in hand.

“Morning.” Sherlock tilts his head in acknowledgement, struggling to sit up. “No, no.” John sets the glass aside, moving his hand behind Sherlock’s shoulders and easing him into an upright position, handing over the water once Sherlock has settled. He watches Sherlock take a few tentative sips, brow glistening with a light sheen of sweat at the end of the endeavour.

“Thank you.” He passes the glass back to John, head lolling on the pillow, body slumped halfway between seated and sprawled. John nods, setting it aside, lips pursing.

“The, ah, hospital. Did you have any…” he trails off, gesturing vaguely next to his head. Sherlock’s expression shutters and he looks away, mouth tight around the edges. Right. Back to the avoidance and silences. He hadn’t missed that. Honestly. John sniffed, feeling his mouth twitch at the corners and he turns to leave.

“No. I had morphine for that,” comes the quiet reply. John glances back over his shoulder, taking in the sight of Sherlock on the bed, staring up at the ceiling with a small frown, chin quivering just a little when he swallows.

“Oh. Right. Okay. And…before you got…shot?”

“It wasn’t a problem.” Sherlock dismisses the notion with a sneer, turning his head to face the opposite wall, leaving John both frustrated and saddened by the knowledge. Just transport, right?

“Fine. I’m making toast. You’re going to eat it.” John leaves the door open behind him as he stalks into the kitchen, keeping an ear out for Sherlock despite his simmering anger. He makes himself tea to keep his hands busy while he waits for the bread, opening the fridge for milk only to find it fully stocked, a note from Mycroft adhering to the milk.

 

_‘Do take care of him. I worry about him. Constantly.’ -MH_

 

John snorts, peeling off the post-it and binning it. As if he didn’t have enough of one Holmes meddling in his life. John slathers honey onto one piece of toast, being liberal with jam on his own slices, and carrying both plates and his tea back to Sherlock’s room. Sherlock has managed to get himself fully upright, the pillows pushed back against the headboard. There are dark patches of sweat near his collar and under his arms, his curls plastered to his forehead. He looks awful, his face pinched and his skin mottled, a bright red flush spread over the apex of his cheeks. John sets the food down, growling under his breath.

“You couldn’t wait five bloody minutes, could you?” Sherlock remains silent, not meeting John’s gaze. “No. Of course not. Because you’re Sherlock _bloody_ Holmes and you don’t need anyone’s help.” John feels his stomach twist when Sherlock flinches, but the anger is too close to the surface. He places the plate on Sherlock’s lap, settling into the chair with his own breakfast, stewing quietly. Sherlock looks down at the single piece of toast, nose wrinkling.

“Not hungry.”

“You need to eat. The pills will hurt your stomach otherwise.”

“The medication results in nausea, drowsiness, light-headedness, and vomiting. Eating could very well be counter-productive,” Sherlock argues, still staring at the toast in his lap with disgust, as though it might sprout legs and attempt to crawl along his thighs.

“Yeah, well, you’re not on a case. You can’t not eat. It’s not _just transport_ anymore, Sherlock. You need to take care of yourself!” John blinks, realising that he’s left his chair and stalked over to stand beside Sherlock’s bed, looming over him. He clears his throat and backs away, staring at the floor. There’s a small crunching noise, a soft hum from Sherlock, and a quiet “thank you.” John gives a jerky nod, taking Sherlock’s water glass to the kitchen for a refill. He leans his head against the cabinets, watching the water spiral down the drain, the dull roar of the stream against the metal basin of the sink echoing in his ears. Sighing, he wets one hands and rubs it over his face, scrunching his nose at the drag of stubble against skin. God, he’s so _angry_. No, not just angry. He’s hurt, and he wants Sherlock to hurt, too.

‘He’s hurting enough,’ John’s brain reminds him. ‘Your wife saw to that.’

“Shut up,” John hisses, shoving the glass under the stream of water and watching it fill, knuckles white. He slams a hand down on the taps, shutting the water off and carting the glass back to Sherlock. “Here.”

“While I appreciate the sentiment,” Sherlock whispers, swallowing thickly. “A bucket would be more appropriate, I think.” John steps back just in time to avoid Sherlock rolling onto his side and vomiting onto the floor, the toast making an unwanted reappearance.

“Shit.” John ducks into the loo and grabs the bin, shoving it under Sherlock’s head just in time for the second wave. Eventually, the retching subsides, and John helps Sherlock roll onto his back, pushing his fringe back from his forehead.

“Sorry,” Sherlock mutters, bringing a hand up to wipe at his mouth.

“You tried to warn me. I should have listened.”

“Only a fool argues with his doctor,” Sherlock chuckles faintly. John’s hand lingers in his greasy curls, anger subsiding long enough for the guilt to settle back in, low and cold in his gut.

“Yeah, well, sometimes your doctor can be a complete dickhead.” John heaves himself off the mattress, shuffling to the kitchen for a roll of paper towel and disinfectant. The vomit cleaned and the bag of soiled paper towel and Sherlock’s breakfast sorted into Mrs. Hudson’s bins, John slips back into 221B, grabbing a flannel and running it under warm water in the loo. He wrings it out, snagging a hand towel for afterwards. Popping his head around the frame, he gives Sherlock a thin smile. “How ‘bout a quick wash?”

Sherlock freezes, eyes wide, but takes a deep breath and nods, steeling himself as if for battle. John sets the hand towel on the bedside table, using the flannel to wipe down Sherlock’s brow, trailing the damp fabric down over his neck. Sherlock lets out a soft hum, lashes fluttering and his mouth relaxing into a small smile. John pauses at the stained collar of Sherlock’s shirt, eyes flicking up to his face. “Alright?” Sherlock stares down at John’s arm and shakes his head. It speaks volumes that Sherlock – the most fastidious person about his hygiene John has ever met – is turning down an opportunity to be clean. Even on days spent wrapped in a sheet, Sherlock had always showered first. “Tonight, then. We’ll try and get you into the shower. I have some waterproof dressings in the kit.”

Easing back into an upright position, John grabs the hand towel and dries Sherlock’s face, gently dabbing at the skin. He seems, smaller, somehow, the all-consuming presence of Sherlock Holmes reduced to something softer, something…less. It makes it harder to justify his anger, harder to let his resentment colour his actions. Seeing Sherlock like this reminds John of how very _human_ he can be. And those are the feelings that are the most dangerous; you can hardly be angry when the person you’re attempting to hate is entirely dependent on you.

John clears his throat, frowning down at the damp flannel. “Do you want to-to try more of the pills?” Sherlock pulls a face, brow creasing and eyes scrunching at the corners. “Not right now, then.”

“John.” Sherlock tugs at the hem of John’s vest, his grip feeble, fingers shaking. John lays his hand over Sherlock’s own, startled by how cold they are. He sits on the lip of the mattress, gathering both of Sherlock’s hands into his own and massaging them gently, blowing on the long fingers to help warm them. Sherlock watches him with wide eyes, the tiny crease between his brows smoothing, and John thinks that he looks nearly ten years younger, his face open and vulnerable.

“Yeah?”

Sherlock’s eyes flit up to his face, something shuttering in their depths as he pulls his hands away. “I need my laptop. And…”

“No. Not yet.”

“But the case – ”

“No. NO!” John pinches the bridge of his nose rising from the mattress. “Not yet. I don’t – no.”

Sherlock ducks his head, settling back on the pillows. “I just wanted to help,” Sherlock murmurs.

“You can’t help this, Sherlock. There are some things that no amount of genius can fix.” John clenches and unclenches his fists, clenching his jaw.

“But…”

“But _what_ , Sherlock?”

“You chose her.”

John laughs, covering his face with one hand, the sound flat and tinny. He breaks it off with huff, staring down at the thick gold band on his left hand, feeling the weight of every choice he’s made since Sherlock jumped from the roof of Bart’s. “Some choices are made for us, Sherlock.” John gathers the dishes and leaves the room, his leg giving a vicious throb as he approaches the sink. He startles, dropping the dishes, the resulting shatter lost to the rush of blood in his ears. John catches himself against the wall, chest heaving, staring down at the shards of ceramic and glass glimmering in the early morning light streaming in through the long windows of their sitting room.

‘Yes,’ John thinks, massaging his leg. ‘Some choices are made for us, and some things that are broken can never truly be made whole again.’


	4. In the Pursuit of Information

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Christ, Sherlock,” John wheezes, laying his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder, lips hovering just inches from the skin.
> 
> “Don’t,” Sherlock snarls and pulls away as far as he’s able. “I don’t need you pity.” He spits the last word like a curse, shoulders rigid.
> 
> “It’s not pity.” No. John knows Sherlock, knows how he wears his pride about his like a cloak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. TW here for Sherlock's recounting of torture and my descriptions of his scars. Sorry for the angst and pain...

Sherlock sleeps lots, eats little, and takes half of the prescribed dose of codeine that his doctors insisted upon when Mycroft arranged for his conditional release into John’s care. They fall into a pattern, a dance that gets them through the day until the light turns molten and red, the shadows crawling across the floor of their flat growing longer with every passing minute. John waits until darkness falls completely, finding comfort in the stillness and the anonymity that the night brings to broach the subject of a shower. Armed with waterproof dressings and a pair of swimming trunks, he stands in the doorway to Sherlock’s room, body falling into parade rest.

“I think a shower will do you good,” he offers, prepared for a fight, for some scathing remark, but nothing comes. Sherlock just nods, waiting expectantly for John’s aid. John sets his things aside, pulling Sherlock up to a seated position and easing his t-shirt over his head, swapping his dressings for the shower ones with careful hands. Sherlock is able to swing his legs to the edge of the mattress on his own, but leans heavily on John as he makes the transition to standing. John can smell him, something dark and musky, the sour tang of sickness lingering on his skin. “One step at a time, yeah?”

Their journey to the loo is slow, each step a process. John can tell that the exertions of the day before have taken their toll on Sherlock, the nightmares setting his recovery back. Sherlock clings to him like a drowning man struggling to stay afloat, eyes fixed on the floor, monitoring every step he takes until the hardwood floors become tile beneath his bare feet and the lip of the tub comes into view. John deposits him on the closed lid of the toilet, manipulating his body to peel off his pyjama trousers.

“Can you…leave the pants on, please?” Sherlock murmurs and John understands. They are both private men who rarely depend on others. The pants are a last layer of dignity, a final shield for Sherlock to hide behind.

“Right, but you will have to change them later.”

Sherlock gives a snort and a wan smile. “I do think I’ll be able to manage that much on my own.” He shifts, giving a wince. “Although, your assistance may be required for a few more days.”

“Good to be of use, then. Stay there. Won’t be a mo’.” John turns away to fiddle with the taps, making the water comfortable, but not scalding. Satisfied, John helps Sherlock into the tub, guiding him to sit on the floor, his back to the spray while John manipulates the showerhead to his liking. “Tip your head back for me?” Sherlock complies, his matted curls unwinding under the weight of the water to lie flat against his skull. John works the shampoo that smells like sandalwood and lemon into Sherlock’s thick tresses, shielding his eyes from the suds. He rinses Sherlock’s hair, working in a lavish conditioner before taking up a flannel and his poncy body wash.

“You don’t have to do this,” Sherlock sighs, eyes shut, his head tipped back. John is mesmerised by the rivulets of water snaking down the long column of Sherlock’s throat, but manages a semi-articulate response.

“It’s…fine.” He lathers the flannel down Sherlock’s arms, paying careful attention to the creases of his elbows and the hollows of his armpits. His legs receive similar treatment, the backs of his knees thoroughly cleaned. Sherlock’s chest is tricky, John working around the bandages while still cleaning the sweat and grim from the skin, but he manages. John moves onto his back and freezes, taking in the extent of the damage there and fighting back a rippling wave of nausea. “Who,” he swallows, blinking water from his eyes. “Who did this to you?”

“It doesn’t matter. They’re all dead now.” John traces his fingers along the twin ridges running parallel to one another on Sherlock’s left shoulder, the edges split and curved like a jagged equal sign in maths. Whip. Another gash snakes down from Sherlock’s right shoulder to his ribs, a gnarled arrow pointing towards four lines radiating out from Sherlock’s spine. Flogger. All of them. There are smaller lines, here and there, silver instead of pink. Knife wounds. Tiny, round craters wink at John from between Sherlock’s ribs, still red and angry against the pale skin. Cigarette butts.

“Christ, Sherlock,” John wheezes, laying his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder, lips hovering just inches from the skin.

“Don’t,” Sherlock snarls and pulls away as far as he’s able. “I don’t need you _pity._ ” He spits the last word like a curse, shoulders rigid.

“It’s not pity.” No. John knows Sherlock, knows how he wears his pride about his like a cloak. He finishes washing Sherlock, rinsing the conditioner from his curls and turning off the water, helping him to his feet. John wraps one towel around his waist, providing some sense of modesty when he drops to his knees and works Sherlock’s soaked pants from his skin. They make their way back into Sherlock’s room, John setting his charge on the bed and drying him carefully, hands gentle but firm, knowing that Sherlock won’t break, but understanding that the moment in and of itself is fragile.

“You have questions.”

“Yeah. What were they trying to get out of you?” John settles his hand on Sherlock’s knee, looking up at him from where he’d been busy drying Sherlock’s feet.

“You of all people should know that torture never yields any useful information, John. Days without sleep, your own screams keeping you awake; endless hours of being beaten with the highest quality tools and the crudest instruments on hand, anything they can find to make you hurt; cold water dumped over your skin to keep you conscious, but not coherent, no you move past that after a few days; hot metal and cigarette butts searing your skin, branding you so that you can never forget that for those weeks spent in that cramped cell, you _belonged_ to them, that they _owned_ you, body and soul – ” Sherlock presses a fist to his mouth, biting down on the knuckles to stop the tidal wave of words spilling from his lips. He squeezes his eyes shut and inhales deeply through his nose, steadying himself. “At a certain point, information is no longer the primary objective. All of that suffering exists only to _break_ you.”

“God, Sherlock.” John closes his eyes, swallowing around the lump in his throat.

‘Your fault,’ his conscience sings, and for a fleeting moment, it sounds suspiciously like Moriarty. ‘Your fauuult.’

“I don’t want your pity, John. I don’t want you to look at me like I’m broken.” Sherlock bows his head, shoulders sagging in defeat. John cups his chin, bringing his head up to meet John’s steady gaze.

“Your war wounds are no less valid than my own, Sherlock. Don’t think less of me for mine and I will do the same for you.” Sherlock nods, gripping tightly to the mattress as John changes his dressings and guides him into fresh clothes, his cheeks taking on the faintest hint of pink when John’s hands skim along his thighs. John gets him settled, making a note to change his sheets in the morning and get started on his physiotherapy.

He stays there, perched on the edge of the bed until Sherlock is sound asleep, just…watching. It should feel odd, intrusive, but he feels a bit numb, his thoughts tumbling over one another in his brain. More and more of the puzzle pieces are falling into place, and John’s not entirely certain he likes the bigger picture. It was so much easier when he could imagine that Sherlock left him behind to go gallivanting off on some big adventure, tearing Moriarty’s network apart with his ‘bit not good’ smile and some brilliant deductions. This – this true story filled with suffering and loss and pain on not only his part, but on _Sherlock’s_ – is a bit too much to stomach. It leaves him feeling hot and cold, shame burning white hot while the dread spreads through his veins with every labouring beat of his heart, turning him to ice.

John pulls away, collapsing onto his own sheets and allowing himself one moment of compete and utter all-consuming grief for everything that he lost – Sherlock, the ease of their friendship before it was so irrevocable damaged, Mary (because she’s not real; never was real) – and then pushes it aside. He’s good at that. After all, he is British. There’s a certain advantage to all of the stiff upper-lip nonsense his father instilled in him.

Quietly, John settles, closing his eyes and hoping – praying with a ferocity he hasn’t quite possessed since he lay dying in the desert – that somehow, they will make it out of this okay.


	5. Finding the Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I…it’s empty. The flash drive. I checked.” Mycroft blinks, looking surprised. It’s not an expression that sits comfortably on his features, too plebeian for the proud nose and the lips more accustomed to settling into a thin, patronizing smile. “Yeah, not what you expected but…I’ve been lied to for too long, Mycroft. I want answers. I want the truth.”
> 
> “You may not like what you find, John. The truth is not always the version of events that will bring us peace of mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I'm sorry...
> 
> Yeah, no I'm not.
> 
> ANGST!

The throbbing ache in John’s shoulder wakes him from a fitful sleep. He groans, rolling onto his right side and breathing through his nose, eyes clenched shut, jaw locked against a scream when he puts weight on his left arm. It’s going to be a long day if he can’t get his shoulder sorted. Slowly, John gets to his feet, stumbling into the loo for muscle relaxants and the pot of Tiger Balm left over from one of Sherlock’s experiments. Hissing through his teeth, he eases his vest aside, working the thick cream into his skin, the harsh scent burning his nose. It helps just enough to allow him limited mobility until the muscle relaxant kicks in. Scrubbing a hand over his face, he leans against the doorframe between the loo and Sherlock’s bedroom, eyes roving over Sherlock’s form. His curls are in complete disarray, sticking up in all directions like the fluff from a dandelion, his face relaxed and peaceful except for the pinch between his brows. John glances at the clock on Sherlock’s bedside table, noting the time and calculating that Sherlock will need another dose and something light to eat in about an hour or so.

A light tapping sound drifts down the hallway from their sitting room, catching John’s attention, and he pads down the hall to investigate, bare feet whispering on the smooth floor. Mycroft is standing in the centre of their sitting room, his suit immaculate and his imposing figure backlit by the gentle morning light filtering in through the windows, a thick manila folder tucked under one arm and his umbrella dangling from the other. It should look intimidating, but the juxtaposition of pale skin and deep shadows makes him look infinitely older and far more melancholy than John has ever seen him before.

“Mycroft,” he greets, pausing to fill the kettle. He has a feeling that whatever Mycroft is here to discuss will require tea. Lots and lots of tea.

“John.” The use of his given name instead of a snide “Dr. Watson” gives John pause, but he shakes it off, pulling down two mugs and setting out the accoutrements. Mycroft watches him with tired eyes, his posture rigid as though he’s keeping himself upright through sheer willpower alone. John bins the teabags and carries the mugs out, setting the milk and sugar on the side table.

“What’s in the folder?”

Mycroft opens the pages and flips through them, the sound of rustling paper echoing through the flat. “This is our file on the woman we know to be Mary Watson. Originally, the intel had been gathered as a part of my personal files. There are pieces of information contained within this file that not even Charles Magnussen is aware of. In light of recent events, I thought it best to give you the option of reading it.”

“So you know then, that Sherlock took her case.” It’s not a question. Mycroft always knows. He’s omniscient and a pain in the arse, but it saves time.

“Yes, I am…aware.”

John sighs, taking a sip of tea, ignoring the burning in his throat as the liquid seeps down into his belly and settles there like a weight. “I…it’s empty. The flash drive. I checked.” Mycroft blinks, looking surprised. It’s not an expression that sits comfortably on his features, too plebeian for the proud nose and the lips more accustomed to settling into a thin, patronizing smile. “Yeah, not what you expected but…I’ve been lied to for too long, Mycroft. I want answers. I want the truth.”

“You may not like what you find, John. The truth is not always the version of events that will bring us peace of mind.”

John looks at him, feeling his face twist into something dark and serious. Mycroft recoils – not enough to be obvious, just a tightening of his shoulders and a shift in his centre of gravity – handing over the folder. John takes it without a word, hands clenching it with enough force to make the folder creak and the pages rustle.

“If there is anything else –”

“I’ll let you know.” Mycroft nods, leaving the flat without a backward glance. John sits in his chair, staring down at the folder in his lap for…hours? Minutes? He can’t quite wrap his head around the passage of time. Everything else has been twisted and turned and tweaked until he can’t make sense of what’s real and what’s fantasy, what’s a truth and what’s a lie.

“John?” The soft call from the kitchen pulls him from his fugue and he leaps from his chair, folder sliding to the floor, crossing the room to Sherlock’s side. Sherlock is leaning against the doorframe, cheeks flushed, his blue dressing gown hanging from one shoulder over his wrinkled pyjamas. John settles his hands on Sherlock’s hips, catching the taller man just as he pitches forward, his face coming to rest in the crook of John’s neck.

“Sorry. I should have brought you your pills.” John rubs soothing circles into Sherlock’s back, chest growing tight when his palm bumps over a particularly prominent scar through the thin layer of fabric. It feels so right to touch him like this, openly and gently, unhurried and lingering.

“Mycroft. He gave you her file.” Sherlock’s breath is hot against the skin of his neck, his curls tickling John’s jaw in a comforting way.

“Yeah.”

“You don’t have to open it. I can –”

 “No. No, we’ll do it together, alright?” John helps Sherlock straighten, guiding him back to bed. “But first, some pain medication and breakfast are in order, I think.”

***

It takes them two weeks to sort through the material in Mary’s file, reading the information over and over again. John feels tainted after having read it, his skin itching regardless of how many times he bathes. He’d wanted to be wrong when they’d started reading Mary’s history, wanted to believe that there was just a little bit of the woman he’d fallen for that was real, but it was just another lie. Looking at the photos and the pages of lies, he knows the truth: she’s not real. Whoever Mary may be, she’s not the woman he fell in love with.

Sherlock looks vaguely ill after reading certain portions – the ones about interrogations that Mary had participated in – and they have to pause, taking breaks to allow their minds to settle. John guides Sherlock through his physiotherapy exercises, helping him to move his arms and checking his dressings. It’s slow going, but Sherlock is gradually able to walk short distances without tiring, rising from the bed to pin photos from the file to the wall behind his door, a case map slowly taking shape.

John’s mobile buzzes on the 14th day, Mary’s name lighting up the screen.

 

_Appointment today. Ultrasound. Are you coming? – MW_

 

Something hot and acrid rises in his throat as he reads the text, his eyes lingering on the initials pinned to the end of the question. It feels like a slap to the face that she’s still using his name when her real identity is still a mystery to them. He ignores it, turning back to the file, to Sherlock. He can’t handle the lies anymore.

 

***

The texts keep coming, day after day, marking the passage of time. By the time the end of the month rolls around, Sherlock is able to spend more time in the sitting room and dress himself, and John’s phone had 168 messages from Mary, each one more vicious that the last.

 

_Saw your daughter on the screen for the first time. You should have been there. -MW_

_Threw out some of your old things. Maybe I should have just had them delivered to Baker Street. -MW_

_He’ll never love you back. -MW_

_You know that he’ll just leave you again. -MW_

_He doesn’t feel things that way. Stop wasting your time. -MW_

_You’re pathetic. -MW_

 

John ignores them, but he can see Sherlock counting them, obsessing over them like John had when The Woman had still been involved in their lives. Every time his text alert sounds, Sherlock’s head snaps up and his mouth pinches at the corners, his eyes taking on a hardened look.

“You should go to her.”

John stares blankly at Sherlock, papers spread out in front of him on the desk. “Why?”

“She’s carrying your child, John. It’s not like you to walk away from a…family.”

That’s what hurts the most, knowing that his mistake has not only changed Sherlock’s life irrevocably, but has helped to create a new life that will be damned to a future of lies and broken families and subterfuge. No one deserves that, especially not a child. “I know. I just…” He wants to be a good father, really he does, but forgiveness doesn’t come easy to him. He’d had two years to mourn Sherlock, to let the wounds heal just enough to function again, and their reconciliation was easier than he’d thought it would be. Sherlock is always the exception. Always. He wants to forgive Mary, if only for the sake of their child, but all the lies…he just _can’t_. His daughter – God, he’s going to be a _father_ – will not suffer for it, though. He’ll make sure that she has everything.

John shakes himself, returning to the medical documents. He’d noticed Mary’s scars when they’d first become intimate, but he’d never mentioned them, knowing how private some things were. None of them were as large or as disfigured as his own, but they were there: lines along her inner thighs, obvious when she wrapped her legs around his waist; shiny patches scattered over her back that were smooth to the touch when he ran his hands over her ribs; tiny starburst of silver skin beneath her breasts that teased his jaw; a faint line running along her abdomen, so faded that it was hardly visibly against her creamy complexion. There are explanations for each and every one of her scars spread out before him, her untold stories put on display for his private viewing, and it feels like another lie. But it’s all there, all of it: her “bike accident” was actually a run-in with a barbwire fence, her “bacon grease cooking incident” was actually scarring from shrapnel. Nothing she ever told him was real. Frustrated, John shoves the papers aside, sending them fluttering onto the carpet. He scrubs at his face, feeling old and tired and heavy. A single sheet of paper crinkles under his elbow, the back tacky from where it had been adhered to another page, and he growls, snatching it up to crumple into a ball and burn, but the medical history scrawled over the page makes him stop, the air sucked from his lungs.

No.

No, no, no. How had he missed this? How had _they_ missed it?

An entire month of reading through the file, months of sleeping with this woman, and he’d _missed_ it.

“John? John!” Sherlock is there, prying the paper from his grasp, his face going pale at the revelation. “John, I-I didn’t know. I’m sorry, I – ”

“Shut up. Just, SHUT UP!” John bellows, shooting out of his chair. He’s breathing heavily, fists clenched hard enough to hurt, nails digging into his palms.

No.

“John, please.”

“I SAID SHUT UP, SHERLOCK!” John lashes out at their side table, sending it flying, the bang of heavy wood against the floor making Sherlock recoil, hands shooting up to cover his face, his knees giving out and sending him tumbling down onto the carpet. John stops, everything freezing.

No. No, this is wrong. It’s not Sherlock’s fault.

It’s his fault. He’s a bloody _doctor_. He should have known from the scar on her abdomen.

It’s his fault.

“I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.” John drops to his knees, cupping Sherlock’s face in his hands. “I’m sorry.” Sherlock leans into his touch, looking devastated.

“I didn’t know. I thought…the signs were _there_ , John.”

John just shakes his head, letting his hands fall into his lap. He feels empty, the anger gone, replaced by a hollow disbelief. He closes his eyes, the words seared into his brain.

 

_Total abdominal hysterectomy with bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy_.

 

Everything is his fault.


	6. Conversations and Catastrophes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Finally talking to me, then?” Mary’s voice is harsh, clipped. 
> 
> John sniffs, pursing his lips. “Yeah.”
> 
> “Well?”
> 
> “We need to talk.”
> 
> “I think we do,” she hisses. “What with you abandoning your pregnant wife to go take care of your little sociopath.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well...that happened. It ended up being a lot more...explosive than I thought, but here we are.

John stands at the window, watching, waiting. The sitting room is dark, shadows cloaking the furniture, slinking along the floor like specters, making everything feel foreign, wrong. John turns the phone over in his hand, pressing the call button and holding it to his ear. It rings, once, twice, three times –

“Finally talking to me, then?” Mary’s voice is harsh, clipped.

John sniffs, pursing his lips. “Yeah.”

“Well?”

“We need to talk.”

“I think we do,” she hisses. “What with you abandoning your pregnant wife to go take care of your little sociopath.”

“Stop. We will talk. I will be there. And you _will_ listen.” John hangs up, gripping his mobile tightly. He leans forward, pressing his forehead to the glass. It’s cool to the touch, making him shiver, his skin prickling under the heavy wool of his jumper. Outside, a black saloon pulls up, Mycroft Holmes stepping out of the car and glancing up at the window, sharp eyes seeming to bore into his skull. John pulls away, grabbing his jacket and his keys, his gun tucked into the waistband of his denims, a comforting weight against his spine. Sherlock is sleeping, still worn out from his ordeal, his body healing. The thought of him all lax with sleep, body warm and pliant between the sheets, makes something resonate deep in his chest. He wants this: Baker Street and Sherlock and being allowed to _touch,_ to _hold,_ to _protect._ It’s almost enough to make him stop, make him turn around, make him stay, but he _needs_ to fix this. Avoiding the creaky stairs, John picks his way down the 17 steps, opening the front door to let Mycroft in.

“He’s asleep. Try not to wake him.”

“Understood.”

“Did it go through?” John fiddles with his cuffs, ring glinting on his left hand, the outside tarnished.

“Yes. All taken care of.”

“Thank you, Mycroft. I owe you one.”

“Come back to Baker Street in one piece and I will consider your debt paid.” John nods, stepping out into the night, his heart pounding in his chest. Soon. It will be over soon.

***

The flat looks the same as he remembers it: ordinary, boring. John ducks out of the car, making his way to the front door and turning the key, the snick of the lock like a gunshot on the quiet street. Mary is there, sitting in her chair, her small belly cradled in her hands.

“Took you long enough.”

“Yes, well.” John coughs, closing the door behind him. “Taking care of gunshot wounds tends to be time consuming.”

“Big brother could have taken care of it. I don’t see why it had to be _you_. You have a family here. You’re going to be a f –”

“Don’t.” John snarls. “Don’t you _dare_ keep lying to me.” Mary looks taken aback, eyes wide. “Don’t you sit there and pretend that we can fix this.”

Mary’s shocked expression falls away, the cold, calculating look from Leinster Gardens taking its place. It chills John to the bone, setting his teeth on edge and making the hairs at his nape stand on end. “Figured it out, then?”

“Yes.”

“Took you long enough,” she sighs, reaching under her shirt and unfastening the padding from around her waist and setting the contraption onto the floor between them. It lies there, accusatory, blank, and something in John cracks.

“What, no guns stashed in there?” John stares at the padded atrocity, anger boiling just under his skin. This is nothing like his anger for Sherlock had been. This…this is unbridled loathing, a bottomless hatred that blooms under his sternum and seeps into his muscles, his bones, his tendons, his veins, his very _cells_ , until he is consumed by it.

“Hardly. So, what now?”

“It’s over. Done.”

“So you’re coming home?”

“No. I’m already home.” John falls into parade rest, lifting his chin, daring Mary to say something. She glares at him, fingers twitching towards her back. John is quicker on the draw, the gun in his hand, safety off, and trained square between Mary’s eyes before the thought has finished forming in her mind. “It’s over. I’m through with the lies.”

She sneers, raising her hands in surrender. “Fine. Go back to him. Go back to your pining and your longing, because he will never love you back, John. You’ll always be his little _sidekick_.”

It’s a low blow, but John lets it slide. It was never about him, anyway. As long as Sherlock is safe, he’ll be fine. “I don’t care. All I want is you gone, out of our lives where you can’t hurt him anymore.”

“What makes you think I’ll go willingly? I have a contract to fill.” John steps forward, walking closer until the gun is inches away from Mary’s forehead. Her breath hitches, pupil’s dilating in the low light. She knows what he’s capable of, knows what he did to Jeff Hope. If he can make a shot like that from far away – through two windows, armed with nothing but a service pistol – she knows exactly how deadly he can be up close.

“I’m done. Mycroft had the marriage annulled because Mary Morstan _doesn’t exist_. There is nothing trying us together anymore.” John reaches behind her and plucks the gun from her waistband, stepping away and emptying the magazine. He tosses it aside, keeping his own gun at the ready. Mary watches him with flat eyes, her expression livid.

“You _chose me_ ,” she spits, stepping forward. John levels the gun at her again, his hand steady.

“I know. All of this –” he gestures between them with his free hand, a sweeping gesture that takes in the house, their rings, everything. “Is my fault. And I’m fixing it.” John backs away, keeping his gun trained on Mary. He opens the door with one hand, easing out onto the steps.

“I had a job, you know,” Mary murmurs, lowering her hands to fiddle with the pendant around her neck. John keeps backing away, moving up the steps. There’s a sinking feeling in his stomach, a chill that runs down his spine at the look in Mary’s eyes. It reminds him of Moriarty and the pool, the gaze of a person ready to do _anything_ to get what they want. “Burn the heart out of Sherlock Holmes. I almost got it; I almost took you away.” She presses down on the pendant and the pregnancy pad begins to beep. “Still can. ‘Till death do us part, _husband_.”

John turns and sprints, rolling under the car just as the first roar of the explosion rocks the street. Debris rains down on the armoured car, the searing heat singing the skin of John’s face even from his hiding place. His ears are ringing, head pounding, but he’s alive. Somehow, he’s alive. John crawls out from under the car, Mycroft’s driver crouching beside him, armed and ready, his mobile pressed to one ear. Neighbours are flooding into the street, sirens blaring in the distance, the flat indigo sky interrupted by thick plumes of grey smoke and dancing tongues of golden flame. Someone guides him to the back of an ambulance, wrapping an orange blanket around his shoulders, bandaging his injuries, and flashing a pen-light in his eyes. He answers their questions on autopilot, staring at the burning remains of his old house.

It’s over. It’s finally over.

They release him, the police officer on duty recognizing him and offering to send someone by in the morning. John nods in thanks, following Mycroft’s driver to the black saloon and collapsing onto the bench.

It’s over.

He stares out the window, London streaking by as they make their way back to Baker Street. John presses his knuckles to his mouth, flinching at the cold kiss of metal against his lips. Numb, he pulls off the ring, peering down at the tarnished gold band on his palm. He lets it fall to the floor of the cabin, the dull clink of metal swallowed by the hiss of tires against asphalt as the care comes to a stop.

Baker Street. Home.

John eases himself out of the car, nodding to the driver before ducking inside. He can hear Sherlock’s frantic demands floating down the stairs, Mycroft’s calm, even cadence replying at every pause. Slowly, skin tingling, stomach roiling, he climbs the steps to the flat, pushing the door open. The sight that greets him puts him at peace, settling the cracked, broken thing that had been stabbing at his heart and making it whole again. Sherlock is standing rigid at the mantle, glaring at his brother, his curls disheveled from being tousled and pulled. Mycroft is seated in Sherlock’s chair, both hands clasped over the handle of his umbrella, his face neutral. It’s so normal, so very _Sherlock_ that he can’t help but smile. He clears his throat, drawing the attention of both Holmes brothers.

“John,” Sherlock gasps, crossing the room and cupping John’s face in his large hands, fingers trembling against his skin. He runs his hands over John’s skin, over and over, fingers tangling in his hair, tracing his cheekbones, caressing his jaw. John remembers being pulled from the bonfire, Sherlock’s hands on his face, the two of them separated by the thin layer of Sherlock’s gloves. The skin-to-skin contact is so much better and it makes him feel a bit raw. He wanted this for so long and now…he could have it. “John. _John_.”

“I’m alright.” John catches one of Sherlock’s hands in his own, pressing a kiss to the palm. Sherlock lets out a small noise halfway between a sob and a sigh, leaning into John’s space. “I’m home. It’s over.”


	7. Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Can we,” John swallows, staring down at the gentle rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest. “Can we start over, d’you think?”
> 
> “No,” Sherlock whispers, eyes falling shut. “I can’t go back and pretend that I –” He cuts himself off, giving a shaky exhale. “I can’t pretend that I don’t care for you. It’s eating me up inside, John, but I don’t want to delete it.” Sherlock’s voice cracks at the end, eyes bright when he opens them to look at John. He looks impossibly sad, a grim determination in the set of his mouth as though braced for rejection. It’s the same look that he’d given John in their sitting room after Mary’s reveal.
> 
> “Because, you chose her.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ANGST! KISSES! FLUFF! CUDDLES! SMUT! :D
> 
>  
> 
> Feedback is appreciated, especially on this chapter.

They stand in the doorway, just staring at each other, the rest of the world falling away. Sherlock’s hands continue to toy with the hair at John’s nape, their bodies close enough to feel the heat radiating between them. John presses another kiss to Sherlock’s palm, the other settling on Sherlock’s hip. Mycroft clears his throat, standing with a nod to both of them and disappearing down the stairs, the door closing behind him with a resounding click.

“John, I…” Sherlock sways slightly, eyes hooded, dark circles evident on his pale skin.

“Shh. It’s alright. Let’s just get to bed, yeah?” Sherlock nods, following John through the kitchen and back into his bedroom. The sheets are tangled, cast haphazardly aside from where Sherlock had rolled out of bed. John lets go of Sherlock’s hand long enough to straighten the bedclothes, turning back and offering him a kind smile. Sherlock shuffles closer, hesitant, unsure in a way John has never seen him before. “Do you want me to stay?”

“Please. I need…I need to touch you, to know that you’re here.” Sherlock reaches for him, hand hovering just shy of John’s chest. John steps forward, letting Sherlock’s palm come to rest over his heart.

“Yeah, okay.” John steps away long enough to strip out of his clothes, sliding between the sheets in just his pants. Sherlock blinks at him, brow pinched. “Problem?” John teases, smiling up at him.

“You’re…in my bed.”

“Do you want me to move to the floor?” John sits up, moving to climb off of the mattress.

“No! No…” Sherlock slides in next to him, settling onto his back to avoid putting pressure on his wound. He stares up at the ceiling, mouth opening and closing as though he’s about to speak before being cut off by a frown.

“Hey. How are we feeling about this?”

“I never thought this would happen,” Sherlock admits, hand reaching out under the blankets to find John’s. John laces their fingers together, bringing their hands up to lie on Sherlock’s chest. “During our entire friendship, you’ve always said that you aren’t gay, that we’re just friends, and that was fine. I wasn’t looking for…more. Then Moriarty found out about you, what you meant to me. He threatened your safety, and I jumped. It seemed fitting, a way to repay you for saving my life so many times. But…while I was Away, I _missed_ you. It was like a part of me had be hacked off, aching yet numb. I wanted you to be there with me, just the two of us against the world. I had thought that you would wait for me and we would pick up where we left off, the consulting detective and his blogger.” Sherlock turns his head, looking at John with wide eyes. John has always thought of it as his ‘deer in the headlights’ expression, the lost look that he wears when sentiment wins out over logic, when human nature refuses to fit into one of the neat boxes in his mind palace. “And then I saw you with _her_. She was in my place beside you and…you chose her.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” John untangles their fingers, splaying his hand over Sherlock’s bullet scar, his touch light. “It was my fault, but I-I’m trying to make it right.”

“You’re always right. You keep me right.”

“Can we,” John swallows, staring down at the gentle rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest. “Can we start over, d’you think?”

“No,” Sherlock whispers, eyes falling shut. “I can’t go back and pretend that I –” He cuts himself off, giving a shaky exhale. “I can’t pretend that I don’t care for you. It’s eating me up inside, John, but I don’t want to delete it.” Sherlock’s voice cracks at the end, eyes bright when he opens them to look at John. He looks impossibly sad, a grim determination in the set of his mouth as though braced for rejection. It’s the same look that he’d given John in their sitting room after Mary’s reveal.

 

_“Because, you_ chose _her.”_

 

“That’s not what I meant.” John props himself up on his elbow, carding his fingers through Sherlock’s curls. He leans over, sliding his nose along Sherlock’s and brushing their lips together, breathing him in. It’s not quite a kiss, more of a caress, but for now, it will have to be enough. “I love you,” he murmurs softly, and they’re so close that it hurts to think of ever parting again. He cups the back of Sherlock’s neck tenderly, pressing a lingering kiss to his forehead.

“ _John_.” Sherlock reaches for him, gripping his bicep. “I…there’s something I should say. I-I’ve meant to say always and then never have.” John slides his hand lower, stroking the skin at his nape. Sherlock’s lashes flutter, mouth falling open. He grips John’s arm tighter, taking a deep breath. “I love you.”

“Good. That’s good.” John presses another kiss to Sherlock’s forehead, pulling back when Sherlock tips his head to chase his mouth. “Not yet, love. You need to heal.”

“John, I’m tired of waiting.”

“Just a few more months, and then you can have your way with me. Promise.” Sherlock’s cheeks turn a charming shade of pink, his pupils blowing wide. John licks his lips, trailing his fingers down Sherlock’s neck to settle back over his chest. “We just need to get you better first.”

***

John remembers his own gunshot wound: the months of physiotherapy, the fatigue, the phantom pain, the nightmares, and the anger. He sees it all in Sherlock as he heals. It reminds him of watching old home movies: the colours changed, the perspective a bit distorted, never quite like you remember it in your head. Sherlock’s wound is different, his circumstances changed, but John remembers, and he tries to be patient, although entertaining a bored Sherlock is a daunting task.

“John.”

“No.” John grabs two mugs, making tea, steadfastly ignoring Sherlock’s litany of complaints.

“But John!”

The kettle clicks and John fills the mugs, bobbing the tea bags and watching the water brown. Satisfied, he bins the bags and adds the milk, passing the carton to Sherlock to place in the fridge. Sherlock takes it with a grimace, yanking the door open and shoving the carton in place. “No, Sherlock. No acids, no body parts, no toxic waste, no poisons, no knives, and no guns until you’re better.”

“I am not an _invalid_ ,” Sherlock hisses, slamming the fridge door closed, the jars of jam rattling ominously at the impact.

“I know that, but you need to be careful!”

“I hate this.” Sherlock collapses into a kitchen chair, burying his face in his hands. “I’m utterly useless like this.” John pauses at the counter, turning to crouch between Sherlock’s knees, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“I know, love, but it’s only been four months. You’ve come leaps and bounds, but gunshot wounds take a long time to heal. Trust me.” John rubs gentle circles into the dip of Sherlock’s collarbone where he knows his own wound lies, pressing a kiss to the back of one hand. The motion is not lost on Sherlock, whose shoulders slump further.

“What if I’m never able to work again?” Sherlock lets his hands fall into his lap, resting his forehead against John’s. “What will I do, John?”

“Hey. Look at me.” John cups Sherlock’s chin in one hand, leaning back to look him in the eye. Sherlock’s face is pinched, his features flicking between his impassive mask and the unguarded expression that he wears when he and John are alone, his lashes damp. “We’ll figure it out, alright? You can still consult, still solve cold cases, and work in the lab. You might not be able to go leaping from the rooftops, but just…take it one day at a time, yeah? I never thought I’d be able to run again, and then I met you.” Sherlock lets out a wet laugh, taking John’s free hand between both of his own, his broad palms and long finger dwarfing John’s smaller ones.

“Thank you, John. As always, you continue to save me from myself.” Sherlock gives his hand a squeeze, the corners of his mouth twisting into a small smile. John’s breath hitches, his chest feeling tight. Sherlock’s eyes are crinkled at the corners, the irises a shimmering, vibrant blue that makes John’s stomach do a little flip, his mouth turned up just at the corners. He’s beautiful and in that moment, John knows that he’s made the right choice. He leans forward, capturing Sherlock’s mouth with his own, heart fluttering at the tiny, breathless whimper Sherlock makes on contact. Sherlock tastes like salt and honey, his mouth soft and inviting, lips moving gently against John’s, tasting, exploring. John sweeps his tongue along Sherlock’s lower lip, making him shiver, his hand sliding up to tangle in those luscious curls. They pull apart with a gasp, mouths slick, lips swollen, and it’s absolutely perfect. John blinks, feeling himself flush.

“Sorry. Sorry, um, that’s –”

“Again,” Sherlock breathes, hands fisted in the front of John’s jumper.

“What?”

“You know how I hate repeating myself.” Sherlock leans forward, ducking his head and slotting their lips together, pulling John forward between the vee of his legs. Giving a startled grunt, John settles his hands on Sherlock’s hips, tilting his chin to deepen the kiss. It’s warm and slow, making John’s toes curl and his chest ache with something impossible and unbridled and terrifying and brilliant. Sherlock pulls away, laying their foreheads together, breathing heavily, his eyes squeezed shut.

“Alright?” John strokes along Sherlock’s ribs, feeling the smooth silk of his shirt beneath his palms, the fabric cool against his heated skin. Sherlock shakes his head, his fringe tickling John’s forehead. “Sherlock? Open your eyes for me.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not, love?”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, hands shaking. “I don’t want to wake up.”

John’s heart gives a twist and he stops, hands coming to rest on Sherlock’s thighs. “It’s real. I promise.”

***

John has become a master of compromise. Living with Sherlock makes such a skill a necessity. As a man of extremes, Sherlock is either completely immersed in an activity or entirely indifferent to it. Unfortunately, his physiotherapy falls into the latter category.

“Sherlock, you need to do your exercises.”

“Hardly. I’m almost better.”

“No, you’re really not.”

“I managed a walk and the stairs yesterday,” Sherlock protests, pouting.

“And had to take a kip afterwards because you were so winded.” John pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. “Just…for me? Please?”

“Fine.” Sherlock sulks for the entire session, but dutifully struggles through the exercises. He shoots John a look when he finishes, conveying his complete and utter distaste for the ordeal with a single eye roll.

“Thank you.” John presses a gentle kiss to his lips, leaving a blinking Sherlock in the sitting room while he pops down to see Mrs. Hudson.

It becomes a compromise between them: Sherlock does his exercises twice a day and John rewards him with a kiss after each session. At first, John feels as though he’s using their new relationship against Sherlock, but that notion is quickly dismissed when Sherlock begins kissing his forehead whenever John brings him a mug of tea.

Give and take.

***

John discovers that Sherlock sleeps on his side. Once his wound has healed enough for him to shift about during the night, John wakes up many a morning with a mouthful of unruly curls or wrapped up in Sherlock’s lanky embrace with Sherlock spooned up behind him, his head tucked under Sherlock’s chin. It’s nice, intimate in a way that he’s been missing; John is an avid fan of a good cuddle and a lie-in, both of which sharing a bed with Sherlock provides.

“Morning.” John presses a kiss to Sherlock’s curls, hand tracing idle patterns on the bare skin of Sherlock’s back. Sherlock grunts in response, nuzzling the crook of John’s neck. “No? Alright. We’ll just have a lie-in.” John relaxes, watching Sherlock wake slowly. It’s a fascinating process, each of Sherlock’s senses coming online one after the other. Sherlock wrinkles his nose, sniffing gently at John’s skin, then turning slightly, ear pressed to John’s chest. The rasp of his lashes against John’s skin and the tiny smacks of his lips make John chuckle softly, the laughter turning into a groan as Sherlock’s hand slides lower, brushing over John’s half-hard cock. He’s often found himself in such a state after a long cuddle with Sherlock, the heat of another body and the glorious sense of intimacy sparking a low burn of arousal deep in his gut. He usually ignores it, content to just hold Sherlock close and listen to him prattle on about bees and pocket knives and poisons, but the firm pass of Sherlock’s hand over his burgeoning erection is enough to make him want more.

Sherlock raises his head from John’s chest, pushing back the sheets to stare down at the tent in John’s pants, hand stroking along John’s inner thigh. “John…”

“ _Christ_ , Sherlock.” John squirms on the mattress, one hand grasping at the sheets. Sherlock cups John’s cock and balls through the thin cotton, pressing down with the heel of his palm. John gives a strangled moan, pushing up into the contact. Sliding down John’s body, Sherlock settles between his legs, reaching up and easing his fingers under the band on John’s pants. His eyes flick up to John’s face, pupils huge, a single ring of silver gleaming around the edges.

“Yes?”

“Oh, God, yes!” Sherlock eases John’s pants over his erection and past the swell of his arse, sliding them down his legs and off, throwing them unceremoniously over one shoulder, eyes fixed on John spread out beneath him. John catches him staring, offering a smirk and spreading his legs wider.

“No wonder you walk like that,” Sherlock breathes, running his hands up John’s thighs to settle at his hips, thumbs stroking gentle circles into the skin.

John laughs softly, arching one brow. “Impressed?”

Sherlock nods, fingers teasing the downy trail of hair from John’s navel to the base of his cock and back up again. John shivers, his prick giving a twitch at the gentle pressure from Sherlock’s long fingers. Sherlock grasps the base of John’s cock, giving one languid stroke and gathering the pre-come from the tip to spread over the shaft. He keeps the pace slow, left arm reaching for the top drawer of the bedside table and plucking a tube of lubricant from the depths. John gives a small whine as Sherlock removes his hand, sighing when it returns a few moments later, the lube still slightly cold against his cock. Sherlock strokes him leisurely, pulling back the foreskin to expose the glans, thumb sweeping over the slit and frenulum.

“Alright?” Sherlock’s voice is rumbling and deep, rasping with arousal as he continues to pull John off.

“B-bit harder,” John instructs, giving a sigh of pleasure as Sherlock complies. “Good. That’s good.”

Sherlock adds a twist on the upstroke, making John’s back arch, his free hand sliding down to roll John’s balls in his palm. One long finger eases back behind his sac, teasing along his perineum and pressing lightly.

“ _Fuck_.” Sherlock lets out a breathy laugh, speeding up his strokes and stimulating John’s prostate on every other pass. John feels his orgasm building at the base of his spine and low in his belly, burning hotter and hotter, coiling tighter and tighter until it snaps, breaking over him like a wave. He muffles his cries with his fist, vision blurring, the hot spurts of his release landing on his abdomen, trickling down into his thatch of pubic hair. Panting, John fumbles for a wad of tissues, managing to wipe most of the mess from his skin. He tosses them aside, reaching to pull Sherlock down beside him, his cheeks flushed and his curls in disarray.

“What would you like, love?”

“Anything. Just…touch me. _Please_.” John presses a lingering kiss to Sherlock’s lips before guiding him onto his back, kissing along his jaw and down the long column of his throat. Sherlock makes small noises of contentment, tilting his chin to expose more of his skin to John’s ministrations. John nips at Sherlock’s collarbones, trailing lips and teeth and tongue down over Sherlock’s chest, pressing his lips to one pebbled nipple.

“Hng!”

“Too much?” Sherlock nods, and John moves away, lips lingering on the raised bullet scar before trailing lower to the apex of Sherlock’s hips. He kisses from one hipbone to the other, sitting back on his knees to slide his hands under the waistband of Sherlock’s pants. John pulls them off slowly, casting them aside with the same disregard that Sherlock showed for his briefs earlier, eying the dusky erection nestled in a neatly trimmed thatch of auburn curls. It’s been some time since he’s done this, but he thinks of it like riding a bike: you never really forget.

“Condom?” Sherlock’s voice is higher than John had thought it would be, tight with restraint, his cheeks and chest mottled with a gorgeous pink that has John licking his lips.

“I’m clean.” He knows that Sherlock is, too, after Mycroft had him tested following his stint in the drug den for the Magnussen case. Sherlock lets out a shaky breath, brushing his dampened fringe off of his forehead, offering John a wavering smile. John strokes his flank lightly, eyes flicking from Sherlock’s face to his erection and back again. “Do you want…”

“Yesss.” Sherlock closes his eyes, drawing the ‘s’ out into a hiss as John bends and takes the head of Sherlock’s prick into his mouth, the salty tang of pre-come blooming over his tongue. That had never been his favourite part of giving head, but the sounds coming out of Sherlock’s mouth are enough for him to put his mild distaste aside. He slides lower, hollowing his cheeks and adding suction as he bobs his head, making a ring around the base, working the shaft where his mouth can’t reach. John fumbles for the lube, letting it warm in his hand before spreading it over his fingers, pulling off the head to stroke Sherlock’s cock, easing the foreskin back to tongue at the glans. Sherlock makes a garbled noise deep in his throat, bucking into John’s fist. Smirking, John slides his hand lower to toy with Sherlock balls as he kisses up and down the shaft. He licks a broad stripe up the side, the lube bland on his tongue. John takes the head into his mouth again, tongue pressing against the frenulum before he slides his mouth lower, taking Sherlock to the root. His throat protests, but he relaxes his jaw, breathing through his nose and pressing against Sherlock’s perineum to give himself time to adjust. Satisfied, he hollows his cheeks and begins to bob up and down, adjusting his pace based on Sherlock’s soft mewls of pleasure or harsh gasps of oversensitivity. They find a pace that works and soon, Sherlock’s hands are in John’s hair, tugging at the short strands in warning. John pulls off, working Sherlock through his orgasm with a practiced hand, transfixed by the sight before him. Sherlock arches off the bed, his skin glistening with a light sheen of sweat in the low light, curls fanned out on the pillow beneath him, his lips full and red from being bitten. Thick ropes of ejaculate spurt over his stomach and John’s fist, making the area slick. When Sherlock whimpers, pawing at John’s wrist, he lets go, leaning over to grab another wad of tissues for clean-up. He wipes off Sherlock’s skin, being careful with his softening cock.

“Thank you.”

“Thank _you_ ,” John murmurs, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s damp brow, settling beside him. “God, you are gorgeous.” Sherlock ducks his head, rolling onto his side to stare at John.

“So.”

“So.”

“‘Not gay?’”

“Bisexual. Uni. It was…frowned upon in the army until the later part of my service, so…” Sherlock nods in understanding, stroking his fingers along the edge of John’s scar. “And you. Not a virgin, then?”

Sherlock shrugs, staring intently at John’s shoulder. “In a sense. I’ve not often been the receiving partner,” he explains, gesturing to himself. “I’m easily overwhelmed. And even in giving, my experience is…limited. I require a certain degree of trust with my partner. There have been a few people with whom I felt comfortable enough to be intimate, but…”

“So that was…?”

“My first successful attempt at receiving oral sex? Yes. I have done some other things, but that was…novel, to say the least.”

“I’m glad.” John presses a kiss to Sherlock’s nose, pulling him close. They’re still a bit sticky, the sheets a bit damp, but right now, everything is perfect and John plans on staying here, Sherlock warm and pliant in his arms, for as long as possible.

“John?”

“Yes, love?”

“I love you.”

John smiles, pulling Sherlock closer and tucking the sheets tight around them, content. “I love you, too.”


	8. Endings and Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Brilliant,” Sherlock whispers, turning his head to press a chaste kiss to John’s forehead, his lips dry and cool against John’s heated skin. “I can work again.”
> 
> “I’m proud of you,” John murmurs, resting his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of damp wool, nicotine, bitter coffee, and spice. 
> 
> “I couldn’t have done it without you, John.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...That's it. That's all. It's over...
> 
> Thank you so, so much for sticking with me to the end!

“Faster, John! We’re losing him!” Sherlock skids around a sharp corner, the tails of his greatcoat billowing behind him like dark wings. John follows close behind him, the sour stench radiating from the skips and the earthy scent of wet asphalt burning his nose. Greg is just behind them, yelling into his mobile, handcuffs gleaming at his belt. A cry sounds just ahead, high and pained, and John’s heart drops. He sprints into the mouth of the alleyway, eyes falling on the two shadowed figures sprawled on the pavement. Pulling his gun from his waistband, John draws closer, sighing in relief, his shoulders sagging. Sherlock is sat astride the suspect’s back, twisting the man’s wrists at uncomfortable angles, a wild light in his eyes. He turns to face John, flashing him a brilliant smile, cheeks flushed from exertion.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock. You couldn’t wait five minutes?” Greg skids to a stop beside John, brow damp, silver hair matted to his brow, and chest heaving from their sprint.

“I caught you your murderer.”

“And left an active crime scene with nothing more than a dramatic gasp, commandeered a firearm from an officer, and made off with evidence!”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Sherlock growls, rolling his eyes, his mouth just shy of a pout. “I solved the case.”

“But you keep breaking the rules!”

“Oi!” The man beneath Sherlock clears his throat. “Could you get ‘im off me? I can’t feel me fingers.”

“Oh, shut up.” Sherlock snatches the cuffs from Greg, snapping them onto the murderer’s wrists and stepping back, allowing the officers from the Yard to escort him away.

“Alright?” John settles his hand at the small of Sherlock’s back, the heavy wool catching on the dry skin of his palm.

“Brilliant,” Sherlock whispers, turning his head to press a chaste kiss to John’s forehead, his lips dry and cool against John’s heated skin. “I can work again.”

“I’m proud of you,” John murmurs, resting his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, breathing in the scent of damp wool, nicotine, bitter coffee, and spice.

“I couldn’t have done it without you, John.”

“Home?”

“Of course.”

They bid farewell to Greg, promising to drop by tomorrow to give their statements ( _Really John? It was child’s play_ ). John laces his fingers with Sherlock’s, meandering through London’s back alleyways until they reach a main road. Sherlock hails a cab effortlessly, curls damp with sweat and tousled from their foot chase. They sit in silence, hands joined on the bench between them, shooting soft glances at each other, the streetlamps casting orange highlights and indigo shadows over their faces. John pays the cabby, grabbing his change and following Sherlock up the 17 steps to their flat. They peel their clothes off slowly, casting them aside to slide naked between the sheets, Sherlock curling up along John’s back, arms wrapped tight around his waist.

“Just this tonight?”

Sherlock makes a hum of agreement in the back of his throat, nuzzling the hollow behind John’s ear. “Just this.”

“Alright.” John settles into the warm embrace, giggling softly when Sherlock’s hands begin to trace idle patterns on the small swell of his tum. Legs tangled, eyes heavy, they let themselves relax, surrendering to sleep after a long and drawn out case.

***

John wakes slowly, feeling warm and content, his body perfectly encased by Sherlock’s long limbs. There’s a distinct hardness between his cheeks, warm and throbbing, making John’s belly thrill with a low burn of arousal. He presses back, undulating his hips, their skin hot and damp, sliding easily against one another. Sherlock gives a breathy sigh, grip tightening around John’s waist, hips stuttering forward, meeting John thrust for thrust.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice is rough with sleep, carrying low notes of desire that make John’s stomach flip.

“Hello, love. How are we feeling?”

“G-good.” Sherlock’s hips hitch forward again, his hand fluttering at John’s hip.

“Here. Let me try something.” John rolls forward just enough to snag the lube from their bedside table, squirting a generous portion onto his palm. He lets it warm, easing his legs apart and smearing it over the soft skin there. Reaching behind him, he guides Sherlock’s hips forward, slotting his cock between John’s thighs. “Try this.” He squeezes his legs together, providing pressure around Sherlock’s prick, smiling softly at the surprised moan Sherlock lets out in response.

“Oh.”

“That’s right. Good.” Sherlock’s cock slides along John’s perineum, the tip teasing his sac on every thrust. It feels good, teasing, hot, slow, and John shivers with pleasure. It’s intimate, unhurried, Sherlock’s large hand on his hip, the other splayed over his chest, holding him close. John reaches back, cupping one generous cheek of Sherlock’s arse and urging him forward.

“ _John_. _John_.”

“That’s it, gorgeous. So close. Can you touch me?” Sherlock nods, curls rasping against John’s neck, his hand sliding from John’s hip down to grasp his throbbing erection, the pressure nearly enough to send him over the edge. He’d been so focused on Sherlock, on Sherlock’s pleasure, that he’d forgotten himself and the competent, sure strokes of his lover have him panting, babbling softly to Sherlock. “You’re perfect. So perfect, Sherlock. God, you’re brilliant. Beautiful. Love you. Love you so much. Come for me, love.”

Sherlock stiffens behind him, his prick giving a twitch between John’s thighs, hot release painting his skin. John stills, letting him ride out the waves of pleasure, spreading his legs to let Sherlock slip out when he starts to keen softly. “Good. So good for me,” John murmurs, rolling to press a kiss to Sherlock’s swollen lips.

“Now you,” Sherlock pants, reaching down and curling his fingers around John’s leaking shaft. Everything narrows down to the pressure of Sherlock’s hand, the glide of skin on skin, the tang of pre-come and the sour edge of ejaculate lingering in the warm air. John muffles his cries in the crook of Sherlock’s neck, spurting over Sherlock’s fist and their sheets. “ _Christ_.”

“Not quite.”

“Git.” John rolls onto his back scrunching his nose at the mess between his thighs.

“Allow me.” Sherlock leans over him, plucking a baby wipe from their nightstand. He spreads John’s legs, wiping gently at the stained skin, dipping down to press a swift kiss to John’s soft cock once he’s finished. Turning, he gives himself a perfunctory cleaning, tossing the soiled wipe into the bin near the bed. Sherlock settles on his front, head pillowed on John’s chest. “If you continue to wake me in such a stimulating manner, I might come to bed more often.”

“You come to bed with me every night.” John tangles his fingers in Sherlock’s curls, toying with the sleek strands.

“Mm, but I’d be more inclined to stay after you’ve fallen asleep.”

“Fair enough. Come on, up. We promised we’d give our statements to Greg.” Sherlock’s brow wrinkles in confusion and John gives him a playful swat on the arm. “Lestrade.”

“Ah. Right. Can we stop at the little bakery near the Yard?” Sherlock sits up, stretching languorously, all long limbs and creamy skin and artfully tousled curls. He looks thoroughly shagged and John’s cock gives a half-hearted twitch at the sight.

“Sherlock Holmes asking to stop for food? The end is nigh.” John heaves himself off the mattress, padding towards the loo for a quick shower.

“You could say I’ve…whet my appetite,” Sherlock purrs, slinging his legs over the side of the bed and following John into the shower. John smiles indulgently, cupping Sherlock’s nape and pulling him down for a lingering kiss.

Yeah, they’re going to be late.

***

“What is that?” John stares down at the wriggling lump of wrinkles, fur, and drool in Sherlock’s lap, blinking owlishly.

“A client gave him to me as a form of payment.” Sherlock frowns down at the squirming puppy, lips pursed. “The case wasn’t that interesting, really.”

“But they gave you a dog.”

“Apparently.” Sherlock slides from his chair to the floor, sitting lotus style with the dog rolling belly-up between his legs, tongue lolling from its tiny mouth.

“What the _hell_ are we supposed to do with it?”

Sherlock bites his lower lip, glancing up at John through his lashes. “I had hope…we could keep him?”

John knows about Redbeard, recalls the whispered conversations when Sherlock’s chest had ached with phantom pains and the nightmares had been too bad to sleep. John remembers Sherlock’s soft laugh as he recounted summer days spent playing pirates with Redbeard, stealing the cupcakes intended for Mycroft and burying them in the garden because “Fatcroft had refused to walk the plank.” Sitting there, watching fondly as the English bulldog puppy chews on its foot, Sherlock looks years younger, and John gives in without a fight.

“Fine. But you’re walking him.”

“John?”

John stoops down, plucking the puppy from Sherlock’s lap and holding him aloft, chuckling at the uncoordinated kicking of his back feet. “And what should we name you, hm?’

“Gladstone.”

“Hm. I like it. You’ll be a very distinguished little fellow.” John nuzzles the puppy’s pudgy little tum, laughing when it licks his nose. Cradling the puppy to his chest, John turns to smile at Sherlock, finding his lover staring at him with an expression of yearning, his eyes soft, mouth twisted into a gentle smile. “Alright?”

“Marry me.” Sherlock’s eyes go wide and he claps a hand over his mouth, cheeks turning a brilliant pink. John gapes at him, ignoring Gladstone’s confused yipping. Sherlock is shaking, a fine trembling that runs from head to toe, chest heaving erratically. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I know that with Mary and everything that you don’t want…I just… _fuck_.”

“Yes,” John breathes, stepping forward and pulling Sherlock down for a kiss, Gladstone giving a grunt between them. “But no wedding. I can’t handle another attempted murder.”

***

Sherlock wakes John with gentle kisses pressed to every inch of his skin, lips soft, tongue teasing. John groans, grabbing Sherlock around the waist and rolling them over, pinning his partner to the mattress. “Hello.”

“You were sleeping. It’s boring.”

“Patience, love. We have all the time in the world.”

Sherlock’s eyes soften and he smiles, leaning up to kiss John gently, platinum band gleaming on his left ring finger. “We do.”

“Alright. Breakfast.”

“Your obsession with food is unhealthy.” Sherlock pouts, allowing John to stride fully naked into the kitchen.

“That’s not what you said last night when I covered you in chocolate and licked it _all_ off.” John waggles his brows at Sherlock, smirking at the flush that spreads from Sherlock’s cheeks down to his throat. “Come on. Let’s finish enjoying our sex holiday.”

It’s peaceful, the cottage they rented in Sussex both private and accessible, a small town just a short drive away. Gladstone has been left in Greg’s care, their blogs updated, and the rest of the world put offline. It’s just the two of them, and it’s lovely.

John squints down at his book, cursing softly under his breath. “I’ll need reading glasses when I’m older.”

“I’m sure you’ll look quite dapper with them.”

“You sure you’ll be alright with an old man hanging around?” Sherlock gives him a droll look from his chair, blue dressing gown falling open to expose his bare chest, the bullet scar a shallow pink divot just next to his sternum. John swallows, staring at his chest, thinking back over all of his choices, all of his mistakes, all of the things that had almost cost him this beautiful man.

“John?”

John rises, crossing the room to straddle Sherlock’s lap, strong thighs bracketing narrow hips. He cups his partner’s face in his hands, smoothing his thumbs over prominent cheekbones. “I love you. So much.”

“And I, you.”

“May I take you to bed, Mr. Holmes?”

“I’d like that very much, Dr. Watson.” John laces his fingers through Sherlock’s, leading him through the cottage to the bedroom, stopping beside the bed. He slides his hands under the cool silk of Sherlock’s robe, unwrapping him slowly, pressing his lips to every new patch of skin he exposes. Sherlock shivers under his touch, arching into John’s hands, head thrown back. John nibbles along the column of his throat, giving his nipples a small caress with the pads of his thumbs before easing Sherlock back onto the mattress. He sheds his own robe, casting it aside and crawling over Sherlock’s lithe form, sealing their mouths together. They kiss deeply, hands wandering, tongues exploring, until Sherlock pulls back with a gasp.

“I’d like to try something, if you’re amenable,” Sherlock murmurs breathily, grasping one on John’s hands in his own.

“What would you like, love?”

“Penetration. If that’s…alright?”

John cups Sherlock’s face with one hand, pressing a kiss to the tip of his nose. “Of course. But let me know if it’s too much, yeah?” Sherlock nods, shivering as John slides down his body, throwing one long leg over his shoulder. John presses a gentle kiss to Sherlock’s ankle, inching up his leg and finding every tender spot that makes Sherlock squirm. He makes his way up to the soft skin of Sherlock’s inner thigh, nibbling the crease between thigh and groin before skirting Sherlock’s flushed and leaking cock to make his way down the other side.

“John, _please_.”

“Soon, love.” John plucks the bottle of lubricant from beneath their pillows, slicking two of his fingers and settling the pad of his thumb against Sherlock’s entrance. Sherlock lets out a small gasp, the skin clenching under John’s touch. “Shh. Relax for me.” He massages the area gently, pressing just enough to feel the muscle begin to loosen. John slots his middle finger into place, guiding Sherlock’s right leg over his shoulder, pressing a kiss to the pale skin. “Now, bear down for me.” Sherlock complies and John eases in to the first knuckle, letting Sherlock adjust to the intrusion.

“ _Ah_.”

“Relax. Deep breaths. There’s a good lad.” John kisses up his thigh again, sliding his finger back until only the tip remains inside Sherlock before pressing back in. Slowly, Sherlock’s body loosens, tension seeping from his frame. John slides his finger just a little deeper, crooking it to give Sherlock’s prostate a light brush.

“Hng!”

“Too much?”

“Yes…no…just, don’t stimulate it yet.”

“Okay.” John pumps his finger in and out, avoiding Sherlock’s prostate. When Sherlock is loose enough, he applies more lube, easing in a second finger. “Still good?”

“Tight, but…manageable.”

“D’you want my mouth?”

Sherlock shakes his head, bearing down on John’s fingers tentatively. Sweat runs in tiny rivulets down his temples to his throat, pooling in the hollow between his collarbones. “No. That will be too much. It’s too…”

“New. I understand.” John distracts Sherlock by running gentle hands along his sensitive inner thighs, pressing kisses to what skin he can reach, continuing to stretch him until John has three fingers working Sherlock open. Cautiously, he brushes over Sherlock’s prostate again, the moan Sherlock lets out coloured with arousal rather than pain.

“Oh!”

John pauses, offering a soft smile. “Good?”

“Don’t stop.” Sherlock bears down on John’s fingers, cock filling where it had softened during John’s earlier ministrations. John maintains his steady pace, brushing Sherlock’s prostate at random intervals, feeling Sherlock relax around him. Satisfied that he’s well prepared, John eases his fingers out, soothing Sherlock’s whine at the loss with a deep kiss, licking his way into his partner’s mouth.

“So good for me. Are you ready for me, love?” Sherlock nods, pupils huge and dark, lips slick from their kisses. John slicks himself up, laying a hand on Sherlock’s thigh. “I have an idea, and I need you to trust me.”

“With my life.”

John kisses him sweetly, nibbling at his lower lip. “Good.” John settles on his back, guiding Sherlock to squat over him, a puzzled expression on his face. “This way, you set the pace. You’re in control.” Something in Sherlock’s eyes clicks and he smiles at John with a tender expression. John gives himself a few firm strokes, his prick aching at the sight of Sherlock looming over him. Wiping his hands on the sheets, he offers them to Sherlock for leverage. Sherlock reaches behind himself, guiding John’s erection into place, his other hand gripping John’s own, damp curls sticking to his forehead. Slowly, Sherlock eases himself down until the crown of John’s cock pops past the ring of muscle. They both groan, eyes fluttering shut. Sherlock is tight and hot and smooth and John has to pinch the base of his cock to keep from coming on the spot. Breathing deeply, he nods, taking Sherlock’s other hand in his, watching his partner lower himself down slowly.

“Perfect. Keep breathing, love. Christ, you’re a marvel. Take it slow. Good. You’re doing so good.”

After a few starts and stops, Sherlock’s arse is flush with John’s hips. Sherlock bears his weight on his knees, slipping his hands down to brace them on John’s chest. He bites his lower lip, raising himself up slowly and sinking back down, testing his body’s limits. Sherlock sets the pace, gaining confidence as he goes. Breathless, John settles his hands on Sherlock’s hips, helping him angle them _just right_.

“ _John!_ ” Sherlock’s eyes snap open, cock jerking between them. He lets John guide his hips, riding John’s prick with smooth motions, his muscles fluttering. John can feel every throb, every shudder intimately and he knows he’s close. He reaches up slowly, trailing his fingers along Sherlock’s flushed cock, making a loose ring with his fingers when Sherlock nods. John matches his strokes to Sherlock’s, feeling his own orgasm looming closer and closer.

Sherlock is radiant, his chin tipped to his chest, eyes closed in pleasure. His nipples are pebbled and dusky against his chest, curls wild, and his skin gleaming gold with sweat in the faint afternoon light. Sherlock opens his eyes, irises glimmering viridian, gold, azure, obsidian in the sunlight, gaze locking with John’s as he sinks down again, body shuddering in pleasure and spilling onto John’s stomach. The rippling tightness of Sherlock’s body contracting around him pulls John over the edge and he gives a startled cry, hands gripping Sherlock’s hips as he spills inside him. Breathing heavily, John comes down from his high, feeling the muscles of his abdomen jittering. Sherlock looks exhausted, lids drooping, the lean muscles of his thighs quivering. John helps him flop onto his back, grabbing a wipe to clean himself off.

“Bear down, love.” John kisses Sherlock’s flat stomach, wiping the mess from between his legs and binning the wipe, pulling his partner close and pressing dozens of kisses to his curls. “How was that?”

“I was a bit too overwhelmed to gather sufficient data. I’m afraid repeat experiments will be required.”

“Git.”

They lie there quietly, John running his hands over Sherlock’s scars while Sherlock dozes lightly in his arms. A quiet murmuring breaks the silence and John pulls back to peer down at his husband. “What’s that, love?”

“It’s my fault that we had to wait so long for this. If I hadn’t jumped…If I’d been cleverer…”

“Hey.” John tilts Sherlock’s chin up to meet his gaze. “We both did things that got in the way of us, and we both made it better. I don’t want to spend the rest of our lives arguing over whose fault it is, okay?” Sherlock nods, tugging John down for a kiss, lips lingering as they pull apart.

“We’ve both seen a lot of things,” Sherlock muses, toying with the short hairs at John’s nape.

“Enough for a lifetime,” John agrees, thumb stroking over one flushed cheekbone.

“Want to see some more?”

“Oh, God, yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Drop by and say hello on [my Tumblr](http://artfulinanities.tumblr.com/)


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